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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24485494">Out of Range</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethanlefeb/pseuds/ethanlefeb'>ethanlefeb</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Half-Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:01:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,088</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24485494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethanlefeb/pseuds/ethanlefeb</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>White Forest has been successfully secured, and it seems as though the Resistance's star member finally has an opportunity to relax while the finishing touches on the rocket are finalized.</p><p> </p><p>However, Gordon's body has different things in mind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Out of Range</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Fantastic work, Doctor! Knew we could count on you!"<br/>
There's a crowd of tired, grateful men and women all crowding amongst themselves within that small, cramped little tunnel, their faces caked in dirt and blood, and creased by the toll this entire insurrection has had on their emotions, but cushioned with smiles that all had the unmistakable look of hope within. </p><p>As Gordon gently moves through the crowd of people, however, he could feel himself doing something he hadn't done for twenty years. As rebels cheer and clap and offer appreciative hugs (which he took, however brief they were) and pats on his suit's shoulders or breastplate (which he responded to with nods), he found himself actually *smiling*. A small thing that steadily grew to be a wide, excited, /hopeful/ expression, one that hadn't been forced to reassure his compatriots that, yes, he was OK, or one that hadn't been a small, practically invisible smirk upon equipping himself with anything that provided extra defense against the seemingly impossible threat of their enemy. A real, genuine smile.</p><p>Though lives had almost certainly been lost today, it felt as if this time, it was going to lead to something. The Combine stranded on Earth, a final nail in the coffin for any remaining citizens to break free from the cuffs of their oppressors and to join the resistance, and to finally reclaim everything that had been lost. Lofty goals, for sure, but if the science team at White Forest had the skills to back up their confidence, Gordon himself felt confident in their rocket.</p><p> </p><p>"Get yourself up to the barracks, Doc! We've got a couple'a hours 'till launch, and everybody's gearin' up to celebrate!"<br/>
With an even wider grin than the smile on Gordon's face, it wasn't long before a tall, portly man had rushed in from inside White Forest, waving at the scientist to direct him out of the tunnel.</p><p> </p><p>And with such an exciting prospect (a chance to sit down and relax after everything that's happened? how could he turn THAT down?), Gordon was hardly in the mindset to turn the rebel down. With a short nod of the head, Dr. Freeman lifts his arm to sling the pulse rifle in his hands up and around his shoulder, adjusting the homemade sling until it was secured onto his back, before following the rebel with the expectation of some semblance of old world comfort lingering in his mind.</p><p> </p><p>"Fantastic work out there, by the by. I mean, that phys-cannon o' yours takes a lot of the credit, but... still!"<br/>
Evidently amused by his joke, Gordon responds with a simple shrug of his shoulders and a quiet chuckle.<br/>
"Kleiner wanted you to get outta that thing 'n into something a bit more comfortable, actually. Doc tells me you used to be into sweaters, right? Think you'll be tickled pink about what he's managed to make. Should be close to your room, too, just... Here it is!"</p><p> </p><p>It's hardly unique compared to what the other rooms at the base looked like, but as the rebel gives a short two-finger salute to Gordon and steps to the side, waiting for him by the doorway, it's hard to find even that thin cot remarkably comfortable, and the small concrete box the room itself comprised of quite comfortable. </p><p>In the right corner of the room, it was clear what he was supposed to do. That tall cylindrical container that Dr. Kleiner had initially presented his Hazardous EnVironments Suit in was pressed up against the wall, awaiting the suit. And right next to it, sitting on the cot and folded neatly in a pile was clearly what he was supposed to change into, and the mere sight of the familiar Black Mesa Eastern Dormitories Kickball Team logo stitched into the front of the sweater right on top of those khakis strengthened the smile on his face.</p><p>Sure, he wasn't... especially familiar with the disembarkment procedure on the Mark V, but he could (vaguely) recall the steps it took to put it /on/. Taking it off shouldn't be much harder, right?</p><p> </p><p>The collar is the first thing to go, detaching from the breastplate with thankfully (and worryingly, frankly) little effort. From there, the breastplate itself. He could hear a faint hiss, then a *bwe-eep* sound as the central processing suite of the whole suit was detached, but for the moment, he hadn't paid it much mind. </p><p>"... I hope they have something to drink. I don't think I've had anything since this started."</p><p> </p><p>Then, the backplate. The tension from both it and the breastplate kept the two held together, so needless to say, that piece went away quite easily.<br/>
That beeping was still sounding, but Gordon's attention was focused on unbuttoning the itchy denim jacket underneath the suit's torso armor, quickly pulling it off and excitedly tugging Kleiner's freshly-made sweater on over his t-shirt.</p><p>"Something to eat, too. My legs are kind of shaking... Too much adrenaline and morphine keeping me going."</p><p>The sleeves, and in turn the vambraces and gloves, both slide off without the resistance of the torso armor, and it's trivial to slip them into their slots on the breastplate before snapping both that and the backplate back together, forming the complete top portion of the suit.</p><p>As for the legs, they're surprisingly easy to climb out of. A simple matter of sitting on the cot for support, clicking in two buttons protected by small, tight flaps on his inner thighs, and then /slowly/ lifting his legs out of the greaves. A definite improvement compared to the Mark IV. These could adjust to the size and shape of the legs inside, so loosening it all made removal that much easier.</p><p> </p><p>Lifting and then placing them at the base of the HEV storage cabinet is a bit weighty, but not impossible, and attaching the torso armor onto the self-supporting legs should be just as easy.<br/>
Gordon lifts the torso armor under the arms, and then turns to the cabinet.</p><p> </p><p>The armor clatters to the ground. And then, so does Gordon.</p><p> </p><p>It's a loud enough sound to alert the man waiting outside, but by the time he comes inside, he fears it's too late. Gordon Freeman lies on the floor, glasses ajar, with the fallen suit piece at his feet leaving a small blue-green fluid leaking through a series of needles throughout the interior, and pooling in the floor as it drips from inside.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>SUBJECT: Gordon Freeman, Age 27, Male<br/>
AFFILIATION: Human Resistance<br/>
CURRENT ASSIGNMENT: Survival</p>
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